John pointed out each individual to her, while she hung fondly on his arm, from some doubtful crude fourteenth century wooden panels of Johns and Denzils, on to Benedict in a furred Henry VII. gown. Then came Henrys and Denzils in Elizabethan armour and puffed white satin, and through Stuart and Commonwealth to Stuart again, and so to William and Mary numbers of Benedicts, and lastly to powdered Georgian James' and Regency Denzils and Johns. And the name Amaryllis recurred more than once in stately dame or damsel, called after that fair Amaryllis of Elizabeth's days who had been maid of honour to the virgin Queen, and had sonnets written to her nut brown locks by the gallants of her time. "How little the women they married seem to have altered the type!" the young living Amaryllis exclaimed, when they came nearly to the end. "It goes on Ardayre, Ardayre, Ardayre, ever since the very first one. Oh! John, if we ever have a son he ought to be even more so--you and I being of the same blood--" and then she hesitated and blushed crimson. This was the first time she had ever spoken of such a thing. John held her arm very tightly to his side for a second, and his voice was uncertain as he answered: "Amaryllis, that is the profound desire of my heart, that we should have a son." A strange feeling of exaltation came over Amaryllis, half-innocent, wholly ignorant as she was. She had been stupid--French novels were all nonsense. Marriages in real life were always like this--of course they must be--since John said plainly and with such deep feeling that his profoundest desire was that they should have a son! That meant that she would surely have one. This was perfectly glorious, and it must simply be those silly books and Elsie Goldmore's too uxorious imagination which had given her some ridiculously romantic exaggerated ideas of what love hours would be. She would now be contented and never worry again. She nestled closer to her husband and looked up at him with eyes sweet and fond, the brown, curly lashes wet with tender dew. "Oh!--darling, when, when do you think we shall have a son?" Then, for the first time in their lives, John Ardayre clasped her in his arms passionately and held her to his heart. "Ah, God," he whispered hoarsely, as he kissed her fresh young lips. "Pray for that, Amaryllis--pray for that, my own." Then he restrained himself and drew her on to the four last pictures at the end of the room. They were of his grandfather and grandmother, and his father and mother. And then there was a blank space, and the brighter colour of the damask showed that a canvas had been removed. "Who hung there, John?" "The accursed snake charmer woman whom my father disgraced the family with by bringing home. She was his wife by the law, and a Frenchman painted her. It was a fine picture with the bastard Ferdinand in her arms--the proof of our shame. I had it taken down and burnt the day the place was mine."